


What you're made of

by Nina36



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Dean is not proud of</p>
            </blockquote>





	What you're made of

There are things Dean is not proud of; things he has done to get back, things that were logical and inevitable at the time but are tasting sour now, as he breathes an air that is not heavy with blood and sulfur and pain.

He knows pain, hell...he could probably write tomes about it: he knows the noise each bone, muscle, tendon, strip of flesh does when torn, bent, burnt, ripped away.

He knows the taste of blood, he can still taste its saltiness, its thick taste in the back of his throat, sometimes.

He was Alistair's pupil, he was a good student, destined to a bright future as a demon, once upon a time, how many lifetimes before he can't say...and it's been easy, incredibly so, to slip back into the frayed and bloodied clothes of Alistair's precious pupil down there.

There are things he wishes he hadn't done, necks he has snapped, souls he has used as baits, eyes pleading mercy, screams drowned in blood...

One year before, he had been a different man: one without a purpose, without aim, confidence...tired to bone, tired of fighting, of hurting, of losing, tired of being afraid all the damn time.

Purgatory changed everything, it has changed him...

Purgatory was a never ending battlefield, with simple rules: kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

And he survived it, he crawled his way back, paving his way with blood, sweat, tears and compromises. There are things he wishes he hadn't seen, faces of monsters he had known, faces contorted in pain and betrayal, rage and bloodlust.

He remembers spotting Lenore, once, trying her best to survive among other, stronger, monsters. He remembers using her as bait to get out of a part of the forest, he remembers how she understood, how she almost accepted it, until creatures that moved like liquid darkness, with red eyes and giant fangs attacked her.

He remembers the children, souls of children taken by monsters, turned into monsters and how hard it had been...how it had been the hardest part for him, the stuff of nightmares, but it hadn't stopped him...

He doesn't remember if he has ever slept in Purgatory, he doesn't remember anything but the blood, the pitch black darkness of the cave where he squatted in, the feeling of the soil almost breathing its hatred toward him: alive, his heart beating, his soul burning, there...where no living soul, no living flesh was supposed to be.

He remembers closing his eyes, though...he remembers half formed images beyond his closed lids, he remembers the words he uttered to give himself strength, not to surrender, not to let it go.

Sam...Sammy...

He remembers how he uttered his brother's name, with his eyes closed: like a talisman, a prayer, flashes of dimples, hazel eyes, floppy hair and a scarred hand to ground him, to give him purpose and strength...to remind him he was human when he had started to doubt it.

Sam...Sammy...real, alive, in his arms: flesh and blood, pure and his.

He might spend a lifetimes adding new nightmares to the ones he has, nightmares of a forest where it's freezing cold and the earth is wet with blood, and the sky is grey.

He might have nightmares about the things he has seen, the things he wishes he hadn't done...but none of that matters, not really, because he came back, for Sam.

And maybe he's tarnished, maybe he's not worthy...but he is Sam's. He's always been.


End file.
